Blood Insurance
by Eucleia
Summary: "She will be used against you. In more ways than one. And you cannot undo what has already been done. What a pity it is to turn family against each other. But I'm sure you know all about that." Ada Wong narrowed her eyes in a feeble attempt to mask her crumbling facade. It was failing quickly. "Now choose. Your daughter. Or her father." [Multiple Pairings. Suspense/Romance/Horror.]
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: I've recently been sucked into the Resident Evil fandom, and I decided I absolutely _must_ write something for it, especially since I've invested so much time into the games.**

**This (mostly) takes place several months after RE6—and will follow (all?) canon events—and include multiple pairings.**

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**Disclaimer: ****I do not own any of the published stories or characters I write about in my own work, nor do I make any profit from my writing.**

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Prologue

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_November 21, 2007  
0524 Hours_

She clenched her teeth, gripping the metal bars next to her in sweaty hands, yet still refused to cry out in pain. Her usually steady heartbeat was pounding in her head, her chest ached with a soreness she should have never known, and her midsection…well, she would be grateful if most of it was still intact by the time this was over.

For all she had been through, this really should not have been the most agonizing ordeal she had encountered—or rather, been _forced_ to encounter in this case, if she was being truly honest with herself—and for a brief moment, dirty images of previous tortures streaked across her blurred mind. She bit down on a red lip at the unpleasant memories—_jobs, _she had to remind herself quickly, _they were jobs that were completed effectively_—and almost forgot to breathe.

A man in a stark white coat—save for a few small splashes of red on the hem—bent over her and prompted sharply, "Exhale. Now."

She did as she was told, and immediately sucked in another labored breath, her lungs burning with every rise and fall. How had the other women done it?

Her head lolled to the side, her forehead slick with sweat and her once-pristine black hair plastered to her cheeks, and glared as savagely as she could at one of the large mirrored windows in the small room. It was all she could do in her present situation. _He_ was probably there, waiting, staring, _judging_ her during what should have been one of the most triumphant occasions in her life; now it was reduced to this prison of a bed while he gloated from behind that bulletproof glass as she was laid low.

"Breathe." The whitecoat ordered again—but this time, it was followed by an abrupt needle-stick to the back and she let out a hiss. "You are not making this easy."

Words caught in her throat amidst the initial shock of pain and something that sounded vaguely like "_Go to hell,_" sputtered from her mouth.

"It is your fault for getting caught in this condition." His soft French accent dripped honeyed poison. "You have gotten careless, _mon cher._"

Another jab in the back from the needle. She jerked her arm, causing the single manacle around her wrist to screech against the bar it was attached to, but she didn't notice or care.

A voice, _his_ voice, suddenly echoed close to her ear—courtesy of the devilish audio contraption wired to the head of the bed she was lying in—and she bit her lip again at its unexpected arrival. _"Consider this as your debt repaid. I am a forgiving employer."_

Forgiving, her ass. If this—and what she knew would inevitably follow—was how he collected, it was nothing short of barbaric. She spat out a few curses in response.

_"You will thank me yet."_

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Behind the one-way window, not one, but two men quietly observed the woman on the bed in the small room, neither showing a glimmer of concern. One of them sighed in dissatisfaction and blinked, bored.

"Something the matter, brother?"

The other waved him off, shaking his head. "Just thinking. Perhaps we are making a mistake with her. The Family…"

"Will fully support your decision, Ian. You are the Head." The younger of the two raised an eyebrow at his sibling's sudden doubt.

Ian sighed again and continued to examine through the window. The woman had quieted down somewhat and she was now breathing normally, her eyes squeezed tight in what he could only guess as searing pain. She was doing remarkably well.

"Once the operation is…concluded, what will you do with her?" The younger brother asked slowly. He didn't take his eyes off of Ian, unsure of what kind of answer he was going to receive. All their lives, Ian had been unreadable, and this crucial moment wasn't any different. A lot was at stake here, considering the enormity of this new project, and trust still didn't come easily, even between family members.

Ian cocked his head to one side, a glint reflecting off his glasses. "I love her." He said simply. "I am not going to _do_ anything with her."

The woman suddenly bolted straight up, her back bending in a perfect arc, and her eyes were wide. The blue paper gown she was wearing split at the side, revealing the smooth ivory skin of her waist, but it appeared she was too far gone to be interested in preserving her modesty.

"Observe, Derek. The moment _Ada Wong_ is at her most vulnerable." The corners of Ian's mouth lifted slightly. "Isn't she exquisite?"

The whitecoat in the room hurried to the foot of the bed as two others entered from unseen doors on either side; the woman had seemingly given up on her pride and a scream now burst from between her teeth.

"I can only imagine what kind of misery she must be going through." Ian remarked rather dolefully, though Derek knew his brother wasn't capable of even that much.

He only nodded, drawn to the bloody scene unfolding before them. The whitecoats were rushing back and forth, cloths in their hands pressing gently on the woman, unaffected as she was by their presence; until suddenly, in a torrent of blood and howls of pain, another shriek joined the strange cacophony—a high-pitched wail.

"Success, Ian." Without hesitation, Derek placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. "You were so certain she wouldn't make it."

"I have my reasons." Ian reluctantly allowed himself a thin smile. "See to it that she is comfortable." He ordered his second-in-command, and ran a hand through his gray-streaked hair. "_Both_ of them."

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**_Report #AW-21112008-0647_**_  
1st Subject: Ada Wong (Alias; Documented Name: Unknown)  
Location: Athena's Highway (Laboratory #AW-1); France  
Condition: In custody_

_2nd Subject: As yet unnamed  
Location: Athena's Highway (Laboratory #AW-1); France  
Condition: In custody_

_[Relationship between 1st/2nd Subjects: Mother/Daughter]_

_Received permission to commence First Stage of Program AW * (Name to be changed) from: Ian Simmons, Head of The Family_

_* First Stage:  
Preserve and Detain 1st Subject; Preserve, Train, Note 2nd Subject; 1st and 2nd Subjects to be relocated every month (next immediate location is TBA)  
-Estimated Time of Completion: Five years [2013] _

_Regarding the heritage of the 2nd Subject: To Whom This May Concern (The Family)  
(To be reviewed and edited every month as needed)—Proceed with caution and care when handling 2nd Subject. Every meeting between mother and child is to be chaperoned. _

_More details to follow._

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**Author's Note: If you have any questions, comments, concerns, please feel free to review.**

**WARNING: This story will include heavy 'M' rated material further in the plot.**


	2. Chapter I: The Lyre

**Author's Note: Sorry I've been away for so long. Since I've been getting many requests to continue this, I will try to update more often than once every six months! As always, if you have any questions, please send me a message.**

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Chapter I: The Lyre

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_Winter 2016  
Washington D.C._

_"Sherry?"_

_"Le…Leon!"_

She had been so proud, so _goddamn_ proud, in that single moment that she had almost gotten over her amazement at seeing the policeman again—well, _ex_-policeman now, from the looks of it—especially _there_ of all places.

_"What are you doing here?"_

_"I'm on protective detail."_

_"Yeah…I heard you became an agent…"_

Except one glance at his face told her she wasn't about to get the congratulations and playful smirk she had so fleetingly expected. What _had_ she expected in those tense moments with the flames around them threatening to snap into an outright inferno? A hug and a tender whisper in her ear—just like in Raccoon City?

Next to her, she felt Jake glower at the older man, probably unsure as to whether or not he was a threat. The other woman—her frown and soft eyes reminded Sherry too much of Claire—was standing uncomfortably, obviously skeptical as well. So Sherry had tried her best to defuse the situation with a seemingly benign question of her own: _"Why are __**you**__ here?"_ _And where's Claire?_ _Why isn't she your partner? Who is __**she**__? _She had wanted to add, but couldn't find it in herself to ask.

Then Jake had to go and try to assert his manhood or whatever—_Men. Really?_—and she had almost had to pry him off of a potential ally.

_Potential._ As much as she had wanted to jump into his arms, Sherry thought she knew better; life in a white lab room had taught her that much. Then he opened his mouth and she wanted to kick herself for ever doubting him.

Sherry sighed as quietly as she could and hung her head, taking a quick peek at her watch. She had a lunch date in half an hour—or whenever this pre-briefing was scheduled to end—and that was one meeting she didn't want to miss. There was a lot to catch up on—almost fifteen years—though she wasn't sure she wanted to relive any of it. There had been too much pain.

_"I heard you became an agent."_

Why couldn't she get his words out of her head? Was it because she was nervous? Or maybe because she had detected the smallest amount of disappointment—or, dare she say it, _guilt_—in his hardened voice?

"…scheduled to leave JFK in one week. The director will have the rest of the details sent to the overseeing agent in charge via cell chip. Dismissed."

_Finally. _She spoke to no one as she exited the room and closed the bulletproof door behind her, her mind too consumed with the anxiety she had worked herself into. It hadn't even been that long since she had seen him last—well, several months now, but that hadn't been _her_ fault—and the anticipation was infuriating.

Fifteen years. _Fifteen years._ She repeated to herself as she quickly made her way out of the unmarked building and down the street to the small restaurant she had chosen. There was no way in hell it could have been that long.

Yet here she was, fully grown and perfectly able to hold her own against the monsters, thank you very much, and there _he_ was, casual, leaning back in his chair on the patio, and only his darting eyes belying the fact that he was anything but. _Probably scoping out escape routes. _Sherry held back a small chuckle; she would have been doing the same.

_Leon._ One-half of her haggard rescue detail in Raccoon City. Yet _haggard_ was barely an appropriate descriptor for the man now standing in front of her.

Like every agent in the D.S.O., Sherry had read and re-read through Leon S. Kennedy's classified—and ever-growing—personal dossier of reports, briefings, research, and pivotal intelligence the man had collected himself, and had had no choice but to conclude that he had not been idle after the U.S. government had all but forced him into its employ. Oh yes, Chief Security Advisor _Simmons_ had made sure to give her the news that her savior had practically been coerced into throwing himself back into the horrendous nightmares they had escaped from in Raccoon—_because of her._

_"What was his name? That boy who was brought in from Raccoon City with you? Leon, I think. You won't be seeing any more of him now. He was made a deal: to become a government agent and help eradicate the bio-organic monstrosities your father helped create—or let you die. And here you are. What a good government dog he's become."_

Sherry clenched her teeth at the memory. She should have known, should have heard the sick triumph in Simmons' voice, the gloating. The man hadn't been capable of much else.

"It's okay, Sherry. At this rate you're going to bore holes into our waiter."

Shaking her head, she blinked twice, the foul memories dissipating, and turned to her companion, that smirk she had come to associate with safety back in Raccoon City creeping onto Leon's lips.

"I'm fine. Just thinking." She sank slowly into the opposite chair and eyed him, still nervous.

_Exact number (estimated 300-400 hostiles) of Las Plagas infected and/or neutralized unknown. Subject [A. Graham] located and recovered. Two outside contacts made: (1) Ada Wong. (2) Jack Krauser. Whereabouts of (1) unknown. (2) killed in action by Agent [L. Kennedy]._

The final statement of the Spain Incident report cascaded behind her eyes as she studied Leon, and though she berated herself for even thinking such a faithless thought, she couldn't help but agree that the man before her was not the same one she had left in Raccoon City. Her eyes flicked warily to one of his hands resting on the arm of the chair. _300-400 killed. And more in China._ He was deadly.

"Am I boring you that much?" Leon raised an eyebrow at her silence and leaned back in his chair again.

"Sorry…just a lot on my mind, especially since I haven't seen in you in so long." Sherry offered a thin smile in return and met his gaze again, not missing the underarm holsters peeking from beneath his unbuttoned jacket. She felt her own concealed firearm grow heavy. _It's definitely not 1998 anymore._

"Same. You've grown. A lot, I might add."

Sherry laughed. "I could say the same to you, Leon. You're certainly not that scrawny police officer that weighed as much as the Kevlar you were wearing back in Raccoon."

It was a pleasant sound, his laugh. She hadn't heard it since…ever, she supposed.

"The D.S.O.'s got me doing all sorts of hellish training. 'To stay in shape' they keep saying." He rolled his eyes. "Speaking of, I've got a physical in a few days. Something about 'checking my stress levels'. Though I'm pretty sure they want to confirm I'm _still_ not infected from China."

"A physical, huh? I haven't been notified yet. Guess that means a little more coming my way." She bit her lip and shrugged.

Leon looked apologetic. "Sorry. You know, I'm sure Hunnigan—"

"It's _fine_, Leon. I'm used to it."

"But you shouldn't have to be." He now wore the same face she had seen when they met in China. Frustration. And helplessness. "You're supposed to be _safe, _Sherry. From both the bioterrorists _and _us."

"I'm as safe as I ever can be." She said stubbornly. "And after Wesker was reported dead, I jumped on that chance to be rid of my laboratory room and fake sunlight. Becoming an agent was something I was _proud_ to do."

Leon suddenly narrowed his eyes at the mention of Wesker, the gunmetal blue irises contracting in a dangerous glint. Then they suddenly softened and returned to the gentle icy hue she remembered. "Claire and I…we almost lost you in Raccoon, Sherry. You know she couldn't bear to go through that again. Or me."

And there it was. It sounded suspiciously like a confession of sorts—the _parental_ kind—though Sherry hadn't exactly had any doubts. For all intents and purposes, Leon and Claire had been, _were,_ her surrogate parents, and this sudden admission almost broke her. She abruptly decided she was about to be in need of a hug soon.

"I'll be careful, Leon. I promise." A limp smile inched onto her face and she brusquely tried to change the subject, not wanting to show any weakness, especially to Leon. She wasn't a little girl anymore, damn it. "So…is there a Mrs. Kennedy I should be worried about? Bringing her to the President's formal dinner on Saturday?"

Leon scoffed, unamused. "With my job? Yeah, _definitely._"

Sherry almost sighed audibly in relief. "You never know. You looked pretty close to your partner back in China."

"Helena? She's a bit too…_passionate _for me." A slight red tinge had made its way into Leon's cheeks and she giggled.

"Passionate, huh? The sex not to your liking?" Her uneasiness evaporated and she felt her muscles loosen. _This _was what she had agreed to lunch for: small talk and teasing. Why had she been so nervous before again?

"That's _not_ what I mean, Sherry. I don't—we didn't even—god, why am I even talking about _sex_ with you? We haven't seen each other in fifteen years and the first thing you ask me is if I'm having sex with my coworker. _Jesus Christ._"

Sherry was pretty sure this conversation would have gone the exact same way if it were her father sitting across from her instead. She smirked. Leon was definitely _acting_ like her father, so what the hell. She decided to prod him a little more. "When was the last time you even _had_ sex, Leon? It sounds like it's been a while."

Leon's eyes widened to blue saucers and Sherry couldn't hold it in anymore. "I…I—that's nothing _you_ should concern yourself with!" He tripped over his words as she burst out in a guffaw.

"Going through a dry spell then?"

"You're one to talk." Leon replied hotly.

She ignored the quip about her nonexistent sex life—courtesy of too many years living with the G-virus—and moved on, immensely satisfied in making Leon sweat. "Anyway, since we're on the subject of significant others, or in your case, _lack_ of—"

His eyes had gone back to that metallic blue. He was obviously irked.

"Claire called me a few days ago about Chris and _his_ partner, Jill Valentine." Sherry continued, undeterred. "The wedding's off _again,_ since the B.S.A.A. can't get their crap together, and assigned his team a new commission somewhere in England." She decided to leave out the part that she was the designated D.S.O. agent in assisting the North American branch of the B.S.A.A. while they were in London. Best not to make him worry. She almost felt guilty. "You think they'd give them at least a few weeks off after what they went through during the Kijuju Incident _and_ China."

Leon frowned, his annoyance shifting to a much more appropriate reason. "You really think the B.S.A.A. would let two of their best operatives just retire like that?" He sighed. "But I do agree. Chris and Jill deserve a break. And I guess I'll be hearing it from Claire later this week. I just hope she doesn't decide to use me as a dartboard, like she did last time." Wincing, Leon pulled a phone from his pocket and checked the time.

"Are you sure you and _Claire_—"

"Drop it, Sherry." He scowled.

She just laughed.

_Unknown Location_

The fourth explosion in five minutes continued to rock the metal walls of the hallway she was running down, and Ada rolled her eyes. This was seriously getting old. _No, __**I'm **__getting too old for this. What a drag._

Taking care not to trip over fallen debris and face-planting into the dirty concrete, she eyed the blinking destination dot in the holographic screen of her eyepiece. "You better have that chopper in the air when I get out of here, Carter!" She had to yell over the weird crinkling sound the metal walls were making. "Visiting this place was a mistake."

Static answered her in her earpiece, followed by the unamused lilt of her pilot—Carter, a twenty-something ex-U.S. Air Force cadet who had somehow managed to impress Ada's unforgiving employers—"Only _you_ can manage to blow up an entire facility in under fifteen minutes." The girl snorted into the microphone.

Ada kicked down a wide door, quickly surveying the obstacles, and flipped over the metal desks to the other side of the room, landing on her heels with a soft click. "The B.S.A.A. comes pretty close." She chuckled to herself and cocked her head toward the ceiling of the next hallway.

Some sort of bloody insect-like creature had latched onto the pipes overhead and was now hissing in protest that its slumber had been interrupted. Another monstrosity that Miss Carla Radames probably had a hand in making. _I really need to retire. Or something._

"I've no time to play with you." Ada frowned and drew out a simple pistol from her leg holster. "I have someone _much_ prettier waiting for me." Two shots into what she thought served as its cranium effectively stopped its growling and she didn't look back as she raced under the red mess she had created. Blue-gray eyes blinked innocently at her in her mind and Ada felt her body soften, even as she burst through the door leading to the roof of the crumbling building. _Definitely pretty._

The helicopter was indeed waiting patiently in the air for her arrival, and for the second time that day, she smiled. "Get me off this damn island and somewhere with civilization." She ordered her pilot, jumping into the tight cabin.

Carter nodded from the cockpit, already knowing where she wanted to go. "Was it really necessary to blow the entire thing to hell?" She lifted the chopper higher and punched in the coordinates as Ada silently watched the flames below bloom in a billow of smoke.

"That's a stupid question and you know it, Carter. Neo-Umbrella still isn't dead and our employers are extremely peeved that they are left to clean up its mess." Ada leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, blue-gray still blinking slowly at her. "We can't afford survivors. Of _any_ kind."

"Ma'am." Carter acknowledged and unlocked the radar jamming signal and flipped a few switches on the overhead board, prompting the aircraft to go into its cloaked mode. "D.C. then?"

She nodded, and suddenly feeling very hot, she added, "And call up that restaurant that I like there. You know which one. Reservation in," she checked her watch, "oh, give or take four hours."

"That early?"

"You mean late. Today's Saturday. Which means the riff-raff will be out for a 'night on the town' and I've no intention of waiting for some idiotic couple to get their asses out of _my_ table." She scowled at an unpleasant memory. "I've also got to make a house call to…someone, and let's just say it might take a little more time to get out his door than usual." Ada exhaled. Really, she didn't know why it always took so long with him.

Carter almost giggled, her hand over her mouth. "Date night always go that badly?"

She sighed. "Without fail."

_Done._

The explosives were set. As soon as the apartment's resident walked through the door, they would be met with an inferno to the face and probably wouldn't be getting up any time soon afterward.

Which was just what he wanted. It had taken an extraordinarily stupid amount of time to measure a precise quantity of the munitions needed to produce a force that would knock someone out, but not outright kill a target. And if this particular target _did_ happen to die…well, it wouldn't be his fault and he didn't exactly care anyway. It would just make things just a little more difficult.

His job done, the tall man pressed a button on a hidden headset to open a direct line to his accomplice. "Everything's in place. Orders?"

_"That was quick. Stay there. Make sure the target goes down. __**Absolutely**__ sure. Stick to the plan. I'm almost done here."_

The man peered out the window down to the boulevard twelve stories below, the streetlights casting a dim shadow across his face in the dark of the apartment. "Affirmed. How long until contact?"

_"An hour at most. Satellite still has Equinox near the White House. You should get ready."_

"Fine. Let me know when you want to begin." He disconnected and narrowed his eyes at the busy street. It was a shame so many would have to suffer tonight.

Turning from the window, the man opened a slim briefcase he had deposited at the foot of the resident's bed and shook out a rather expensive, pressed black suit. He had never been one for formal wear, but tonight was an exception. Holding it out in front of him like a dirty rag, he caught himself in the nearby mirror and frowned. His eyes seemed to question his resolve, but he brushed it off as he peeled his jacket and outerwear off in the bathroom.

An inconsistency in the grays and blacks of the darkened bathroom caught his eye; were those _red_ towels? Or were his eyes still adjusting and trying to compensate? Mentally tucking the detail away—if those towels were in fact red, they might be useful for cleanup later on—he turned back toward the mirror, buttoning up a crisp, white dress shirt and looping a black silk tie beneath the collar.

He finished dressing in the growing twilight, making sure not to disturb any items lying around, and scanned his surroundings for any discrepancies he might have made during the setup. He didn't dare turn any lights on.

The apartment was clean; in fact, it barely looked like someone lived there at all: furniture was sparse, except for the essentials—a double bed and desk in the bedroom, and a couch and some shelves in the living room—and there were hardly any personal belongings, pictures, keepsakes, nothing to confirm that this wasn't actually a room for rent at an upscale hotel.

Upon closer inspection though, the man could distinguish a few clues to the resident's living habits, starting with the desk in the bedroom. He'd noticed it as soon as he had walked into the bedroom: a small black 9 mm handgun, barely imperceptible, strapped to the underside of the desk, just slightly favoring the right. The man smirked and reached under, sliding the gun from its holster, and examined it. It was new, he decided after a minute of inspection, and hadn't seen much action, if any at all. No scratches from cleaning or disassembling were present, and the clip was full; the grip was still a bit stiff from disuse, but it fit well in his palm nonetheless. Perfect.

Gun still in hand, he searched the rest of the apartment, first checking the obvious places one would try to conceal weapons: the kitchen yielded an average military-issue combat knife amongst various other culinary cutlery in one of the drawers and the underside of the small coffee table was forced to give up another 9 mm handgun, but of a different model and make than the one that had been under the desk. The man clicked his tongue against his teeth. They were clever and decent enough hiding spots which he himself might have decided on, but to be honest, he had expected a little more from the target, and further exploration confirmed his disappointment. Deciding that enough was enough, he confiscated the prizes from his hunt—stowing them in the briefcase he had brought—and sat in the chair at the desk, checking the time and vitals status of his partner across the city and wondering why in the world there was absolutely nothing on or around the muted black desk.

It was obviously hiding something. That much _anyone_ could have figured out just by looking at it. It was just too plain. Too plain and bare. The matte surface, the picture-frame edges, the slight glare off the corner reminded him a little of…he raised his eyebrow, amused. His target did seem to have _some_ forethought.

Reaching under to the side of the now-empty gun holster, his fingers gently caressed the area, feeling for a button or switch flush against the desk's alloy material, and when he finally found it, he was rewarded with his biggest prize yet.

The entire top surface of the desk suddenly slid a few inches backward and lifted at an angle, until it appeared he was looking at some sort of screen, and a hidden flat keyboard ejected itself from the edge of the desk in front of him. The screen then lit up softly to display several different commands arranged in a tile pattern.

The man smiled.

One of the tiles on the screen caught his immediate attention—_Armory_—so he tapped it, prompting a password input box to appear, along with no information as to _where_ this _Armory_ was (if it was even in the apartment in the first place). He chose to ignore the password input and exited the command, deciding to check if any of the other command tiles weren't password-protected, just in case. If he could glean any possible useful information from this remarkable device, it might come in handy for the upcoming months—perhaps years.

Only one tile didn't have any sort of security measure restricting its secrets: an unnamed digital file of unfinished documents the apartment's resident had seemingly been working on before being called away. Opening one of the documents, the man was again prompted for a password, this time voice protected.

_"Please state your birthday." _The computer commanded.

Without hesitation, the man replied in a low voice.

_"Please state your government affiliation."_

Again, the man replied.

_"Please state your agent identification."_

Again, the man replied.

_"Please wait."_

The man held his breath.

_"Your login session will continue in five minutes. Please confirm the previous changes you have made to this document."_

The man did.

_"Accepted. Welcome back Agent—"_

His communicator beeped in his ear.

_"It's time."_

Leon gave his last formalities to the various dignitaries and ambassadors that had assembled in the reception area, and almost breathed a sigh of relief when Sherry practically yanked him out the door by the sleeve and shoved headfirst him into a taxi.

"Have somewhere to be?" He rolled his shoulders and fixed his jacket, too tired to bother loosening his tie.

"Jake is expecting me in London tomorrow." Sherry bit her lip and smiled at him apologetically, pulling at her dress. "I'd rather not stay in that stuffy room any more than I have to." After a few seconds of silence, she added, "And I know you wouldn't want to either," and gave her companion a once-over, her eyes drinking in his appearance fully for the first time that night. "Even though Leon Kennedy does apparently clean up _rather_ nicely."

Deciding not to chase that rabbit down the hole, Leon only shrugged, feeling his head swim from the night's alcohol. "London, huh?"

"Not your department." Sherry said quickly. "Just inspection, really." She didn't add that Neo-Umbrella was most likely the perpetrator, and it definitely wasn't an inspection. The report flashed behind her eyes.

_Known as Child 11. Appearance closely resembles [-]._ The name had been blacked out, but judging from the frantic email her overseeing agent had attached, Sherry had a good guess at whose it was. If the events the report had detailed were true and accurate, the D.S.O. and B.S.A.A. were about to have a serious dilemma to untangle. Good thing Leon had been ordered to take a month off.

His voice shook her from the unsettling report. "Good luck to you." He ran a hand through his hair, letting the strands fall back into his eyes. "You're not taking anyone else?"

"I'm supposed to meet a few representatives from the branch office in London, but I'm not counting on their capability. But it's nothing I'm going to lose sleep over." Sherry crossed her legs. "It's cleanup, remember? It shouldn't take me more than a few days at most. And I'm gonna have Jake with me." She grinned.

Leon made a face. "Not that I'm _terribly_ fond of your boyfriend or anything, but are you sure you're going to be fine? I could make a temporary transfer—"

"_Not your department_, Leon. You're supposed to be on leave." She clamped her mouth shut.

"Fine, fine. I know when I'm beaten." He stared out the window. It was dark, he was exhausted, and he was looking forward to dropping into bed the minute he got home—clothes optional. It had been one of _those_ days and he was pretty sure he'd sleep until noon tomorrow.

"Sulking?" Sherry asked, after several minutes of relaxed silence. Looking over, she signaled the cab driver to stop, since it was obvious Leon wasn't paying attention.

"…more like dozing." His answer came thickly.

"Well you can continue your 'dozing' after you pay the fare." She giggled. "This _is_ where you live right? Pretty uppity place."

"Don't you live somewhere similar? And it wasn't my choice." Leon mumbled and opened the car door. "Anyway, call me before you take off tomorrow. Or leave a message. Pretty sure I'll still be unconscious."

"Yes, _dad._" Sherry replied—a little too sarcastically—and leaning across the seat, she reached up with a shaking hand, yanked him down by his black silk tie, and kissed him on the cheek. Maybe it was the alcohol. Or maybe it was because he was dressed in that impressive three-piece that made him look so stylishly handsome. _God I hope you find a woman._ Or maybe it was that blacked out name in that report she had been sent the night before. Sherry shivered and decided it was the alcohol.

_He'll be okay._

Leon chuckled and planted a chaste kiss atop her forehead, oblivious to her inner disquietude. "Stay safe, Sherry. And keep Jake safe. He's a lucky guy." He ducked out of the car and she watched his back recede as he straightened his tie and moved up the steps into the apartment complex the taxi was parked in front of.

"Address, miss?" The cabbie prompted, and once she gave it, they sped away, her lips still burning. Why had she done that again? Her vision blurred as her mind tried to answer and the miles swept by in silence.

They were five minutes away from her apartment when the explosion went off.


	3. Janus: Stage I

Janus: Stage I

* * *

_He had a blinding headache. The kind he wished he had forgotten. Or remembered? His mind was incapable of composing coherent thoughts, and no memories—recent or otherwise—were forthcoming. _

_Who was he again?_

_The pounding of the headache was slowly fusing the acute pain and dull soreness of his skull into a gentle soothing he willingly fell into, and for some reason, he took comfort in its consistency. It felt reassuring._

_Except…what was his name?_

_His brain surged with a jumble of letters that organized themselves into strange words and names, none of which sounded quite right, and again he retreated into the pulsing calm of his headache. It was beckoning with the promise of permanent respite and peace. _

_Yet a part of him still fought against such an impossibility. Words like 'virus' and 'Equinox' were beginning to take shape and with them, familiar senses of dread and anxiety, but his psyche didn't collapse like he felt it should have as they developed some sort of meaning. Other, lesser words permeated his brain, but in a different way—was someone speaking? Was __**he**__ speaking? _

_No. He knew what his own voice sounded like, was supposed to sound like._

_But everything sounded the same in his head. Was he even __**hearing**__ at all? _

_The throbbing lull beckoned again, and afraid that he might be sinking into some sort of madness-inducing memory loss, he let the pain envelop him tighter, a voice that could have been in his head or not murmuring about something called Janus and hiding in mazes. _

_Janus. What on earth was Janus? It didn't fit in with the rest of the words his brain apparently knew. With each repetition of the word, his brain lurched into an electric deluge of satisfaction and intimacy, while the rest of his body rapidly flooded with a feeling akin to devilish revelry. It yanked him back from his Pain's embrace._

_Janus. It belonged to him, whatever it was, and him alone. It sounded...safe. _

_Was __**he **__Janus? _

_Images were now trying to form behind his burning eyes but they were muddled and blurred, with no distinct shapes even barely recognizable to his fragile mind. The amnesia continued to tug on him, his poor consciousness caught in a perilous game of tug-of-war with itself before it would ultimately turn on him. Colors were making their way to his retinas but he ignored them, still beguiled by the name of 'Janus' and its familiar secrets; he finally forced himself from the pounding of the headache with just the very thought of the name. The pain dissipated slowly—until he was able to open his eyes. _

_Blackness yawned in front of him, and though he felt dismay begin to set in, he __**knew **__he should be able to see, pitch-black darkness or not. The earlier sensations brought on by the amnesia's failed coup on his mind—uncertainty and contentedness—were suddenly replaced by feelings more recognizable: frustration and ferocity. _

_He tried to stretch his limbs and found that they were much more pliant than one would have thought after the pain his head had just endured. No matter. It was indeed rather curious, but he would worry about that later. Right now—_

_A small speaker somewhere to his right chirped to life. _

_"Welcome to the Spencer Family Estate, Equinox. Thank you for taking part in Tricell's newest experiment. Please, make your way to the door of your room and await assistance. We will begin momentarily. Should you need anything, do not hesitate to ask. My name is Steve Burnside." _


End file.
